


every year is a world.

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javier Manquillo/Alberto Moreno; AU. Javier studies English at university and goes to do his year abroad in Liverpool. While he's there he meets Alberto (who is working there) and they develop feelings for each other. But then Javier has to go back home. Whether everything works or not is up to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every year is a world.

**Author's Note:**

> Internets! I started this story about two footy ficathons ago. For the nonny who requested this - sorry so late! The prompt got a bit more involved than it probably should have. There's a lot of handwaving in this story re: football philosophy, the pyramid in English football, the FA cup, depression, Liverpool (been there twice/thrice, live further down south, sorry) etc. This story isn't beta'd (beta ain't nothing but a letter j/k) - so read at your own risk, but there are no crimes against grammar. I started writing it in Spanish then had to swing back to English due to reasons, so there's a bit of stylistic strangeness going on.

_Liverpool: now_

“Y- you’re leaving?”

“Staying wasn’t an option, you know that.”

Alberto knew, he _knew_ \- just as how he knew the colour of Javier’s hair and eyes -brown and brown. 

“I-” Alberto looked up and sideways, so that he could avoid tearing up. Shaking his head, and trying to will himself to smile, he looked at Javier again. “I-” he tried again, a shrug of his shoulders, and yeah, his facial muscles kicked this time around, his smile as weak as his excuse. “I forgot.”

“Well,” Javier rolled up his shirt, and eyeing the suitcase on the bed across the room, flicked his wrists and threw it in. Considering Javier’s room was the typical student’s room, and size of a postage stamp, it was a no brainer. “I didn’t. I have work, and a life and it’s not here,” Javier scooped a shirt from the hanger in his closet, and bundled it, ready to toss into the suitcase again, only for Alberto to intercept it in mid throw, smoothed it against his chest, his chin holding the shirt against his chest, as he folded sleeves, sides and habit from working in hospitality and putting towels and sheets away. If his fingers shook a bit as he smoothed at the wrinkles of Javier’s shirt, and patted it as he put it into Javier’s suitcase, the room was cold, that’s all.

“Have you ever thought of going back to Spain?”

“No,” Alberto answered, as he caught the other shirt that Javier threw and started to fold it. Quicker this time, “my life is here, in Liverpool.”

“Okay.” Javier did that little smile that he did, the one that still drove Alberto to distraction, because you never knew if it meant that Javier was amused, or detached, and half the fun over the year had been trying to figure it out. 

_Is that all you can say?_ Alberto wanted to ask, but instead he stepped away, and to stop his hands from pawing at Javier’s clothes, he slipped them into the pockets of his cargos. He wanted to say more, a lot more, but Javier was right.  
“I have to go to work,” he opted for an out, because he couldn’t stay in this room anymore, with Javier packing himself away into cases, and soon he’d leave, as if he hadn’t been here, as if... as if. _Every year is a world_ , he told himself, a rallying cry he held on to when- _when_.

“My flight leaves for Spain tomorrow at 18:00, british time,” Javier said, his voice polite, his face not giving away anything, “Will I see you before I go?”

“I-” Alberto opened his mouth, swallowed and tried again. “I don’t know. I might have to work, you how how Lovern is.”

Javier rolled up another shirt, and flicked it in the direction of the suitcase on the bed. “I know.”

_Madrid, Spain 12 months ago_

“Liverpool?”

“Why not? It’s a good university and Liverpool isn’t as expensive as London. The classes are only twenty hours a week, so I can work part time,” Javier folded his shirt and tucked it into his carry on.

“The weather,” Víctor said, his eyes on the ball as he did controlled keep ups, from knees, to insteps, to forehead, his movements small and quick in a cramped space. They were in the bedroom, both of them shared once upon a while ago. The chest of drawers open revealing their partially empty lot, assorted clothing, hanging from the open drawers, spread across the bed, as well migrating into Javier’s carry on zipped open. “Will be shit.”

“It will be,” Javier agreed, looking through the blinds on his bedroom window to the sun bleached outdoors. Late August, and the sun’s bright intensity showed no signs of dimming. 

“The food will also be shit.”

“Keep selling it, Víctor,” Javier waved him off, as he stuffed another rolled shirt into his bag. “It’s done. It’s paid for.”

Víctor did a final knees up with the ball, catching it between his hands. He cast an eye on the room, and it already seemed smaller now that Javier was packing his life into bags and leaving. The Atlético Madrid posters of various players on his walls, the team trophies they won as children arranged on the dresser’s surface. “I don’t want you to go,” he said, placing the ball on the dresser, before he threw himself across the bed, hands and legs sprawled out like a starfish, kicking Javier’s bag off the bed, onto the floor. 

“ _¡Gilipollas!_ ” Javier shook his head at his brother as he swiped at the bag’s handles and lifted it off the floor. “If this is your way of making me stay-” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “Besides, it’s not as if you’re housebound, no? You have to return oh, anytime now for training. You can visit, you know.”

“Liverpool.” Víctor shook his head, his forehead wrinkling into lines that mirrored Javier’s own as he frowned while Javier lifted his eyebrows - different expressions of bemusement at the same time. 

“It will be a great adventure,” Javier hefted his bag to the height of his shoulders, and let it go, the bag slamming full tilt on his brother’s stomach, snickering when Víctor’s shouted curses pinged around the room. “Now, get off my bed.”

***

“Ah, a _Colchonero_.”

“Sorry, what?” Javier said, tugging a headphone from his ear, because that accent didn’t sound English. Actually, it sounded more Spanish, and more Southern. 

“Your shirt? Atléti, right?” 

“Yeah, my home team,” Javier said, as he dragged out his wallet from the pocket of his jeans to pay for his food. For all the warnings he got about English food, Liverpool university’s offerings had been a pleasant surprise. The cafeteria clean and well maintained, the food varied and attractive. He decided to live a little and went for shepherd’s pie and something called an apple crumb. _Apple crumbs. Funny_. The guy on the other side of the counter smiled as if he had been privy to Javier's private joke, his pale face covered in ginger whiskers, his hair cut asymmetrical and short. 

“You’re from Madrid and Atlético is your team? Not the other one?”

“No,” Javier smiled, as he counted out two five pound notes from his wallet and slid them on the counter. “Are they yours?”

“Noooo, Sevilla,” he remarked, his cheeks dimpling with his amusement. “The only team. We’ll get into Champions League next year.”

“Keep sleeping, so you can enjoy that dream,” Javier laughed, glad that at this hour- somewhere between half two and three in the afternoon, the crowds were sparse, so that he could enjoy this conversation. There was nothing like ribbing people about your team’s success, and at least this guy wasn’t a Barcelona nor a Real Madrid fan. Those were the _worst_.

“Here’s your change, Atletí, two pounds and sixty pence.”

Javier hefted his tray, the coins tucked in the corner, feeling unbent enough to smile as he departed. “Bye, Sevilla.”

***

"¡Javi!”

"Víctor,” Javier smiled at the sound of his brother’s voice over the phone, “how are you?" 

"I’m _great_ , I’m in Spain, remember? Just calling to see if you need a ticket home?"

“Ha.”

“Where are you, then?”

“I’m... somewhere.” Javier held the phone to his ear as he walked on, his backpack hanging off his shoulder. The morning brisk, the playing fields spread before him, their edges blurred like the edges of a dream as the mist rolled over. The sun hazy, lighting Javier’s surroundings with its diffused rays. The green of the fields with the graphic lines marking positions teased behind the diamond grid of the fences. His heart lurched against his chest as he saw the pitch, and people playing on it. Javier wondered if the pain of _want_ would ever go away, if he were a fool to still love something that rejected him outright. 

“Javi,” Víctor asked in the tones of someone who knew something snagged his twin’s attention. “Where are you?” Javier didn’t say a word, as he flashed his student card at the guard, pulling the same dopey face that he had on his card. With a twist of his mouth, the guard shook his head and waved him through. Javier kept on walking - then stopped as he saw the game before him. 

“Víctor, sorry, I have to go,” Javier cut in, not bothering to hide the tremor in his voice, because Víctor knew him well enough to pretend that it wasn’t there. “There’s a game on.”

“We’ll talk, eh?” Víctor promised before ringing off.

***

Every Sunday morning, Alberto found himself on Liverpool university's playing fields, a member of a four or five a side- depending on who showed up. The morning brisk, even in early September, the sun burning off the mist on the field. He ran, arms pumping, his shirt and undershirt clinging against his sweat sheened torso, his knee brace secure. The wind slapped at his cheeks as he made to body block Danny Sturridge. Danny Sturridge; strong, tough with enough pace as a thoroughbred, pirouetted- the bastard- nicked past him, firing a ball in the back of the unmanned net.

"Get in, bruv! Back of the net!" Daniel crowed, before breaking out into his odd dance, his arms and upper torso moving as if doing a wave, his feet doing a soft shuffle. 

_te la comes_ , Alberto hissed, more annoyed at himself than Daniel. Daniel, like any good player with a killer instinct, saw a space and exploited it. But still... _bastard_.

“ _Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me..._ ” Daniel sang loudly and off key, prompting everyone else on the field to crack up. 

Three short blasts of a whistle cut the laughter short. "Ten minutes,” Jose called. “Then we change sides."

Alberto wiped at his face with the back of his hand, jogging to the side lines where Jose waited with a bottle of water. Grateful, Alberto took a slug, swished the water around his mouth and spat it out on the grass. A movement on the edge of the field snagged his eye, the red and white striped shirt familiar, as - 

“Hey, Atlético!” Alberto raised his hand with a wave. The figure on the edge of the field stopped, for two beats. He tilted his head, frowned, and then he smiled, clicking off his phone. Alberto let out a breath he never knew he’d been holding. 

“Atlético?” Jose questioned, with a raised eyebrow. “His mother named him after the _other_ Madrid team? The one that’s not Getafe?” 

“I don’t know his name,” Alberto admitted, “I covered Lovren’s shift the other day and - hey, give me a minute.”

Jose-being Jose- didn’t take Alberto’s brush off as anything to be insulted by, and went back to checking his Instagram feed on his phone. “Ten minutes,” he repeated, eyes on the screen, not realising that Alberto already jogged off to the far side of the pitch. 

Two weeks in, and Alberto couldn’t shake the face from his mind. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t met fellow Spaniards before; Suso and Jose were fellow _españoles_ who came on this side of the pond and settled here. Liverpool University was a place of learning, and England had been one of the more buoyant economies in Europe over the past few years. A lot of Spaniards who had a bit of English came to try their luck with employment over here and Atlético Madrid was no different. 

Atlético Madrid was now on the sidelines of the field, the red and white stripes of his jersey teasing under the black zipped hoodie, his backpack hanging off his shoulder, hands in his pockets and an expression that might be amusement or confusion. 

_Yeah, no different_ , Alberto told himself. 

“ _Sevilla_ ,” he greeted in Spanish, his accent so _Madrid with a z_ \- and if they’d been in Spain, Alberto would have rolled his eyes just because. “Good game? I saw that player pass you-”

Alberto felt his face flush, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “That was Danny.”

“You play-?”

“Leftback, well- not any more-” Alberto cut himself off because no one needed to hear _that_ story. “It’s five a side- I just defend.”

“Ah,” Atlético nodded politely, with the sort of air where you didn’t know if he was naturally reserved or shy. “I used to be a- right back. A long time ago.”

“Oh y-”

“Alberto, it’s ti- oh, pardon me,” Danny said, as if he were sorry for interrupting. But he wasn’t, not really. “Can your mate do us a favour and fill in for the other side? Suso has to go and swing by his missus.”

“I-” Alberto began, only for Atléti to cut in. 

“Sure.”

“Mate- you’re _biblical_!” Danny grinned, holding his hand in greeting. “I’m Danny, and you already know Alberto here. Raheem is on the field, he’s the one who’s mostly the high top fade. What’s your name, bruv?”

“Javier, Javier Manquillo.”

“Do you need boots?”

“No,” Javier smiled then, causing Alberto to be irrationally jealous at Daniel. “I carried my own.”

“All right!” Danny clapped his hands. “You’re on my side. We’ll throw a bib on you and beat Alberto here, sound?”

“Sound.”

***

Like his first language, it all came back to him. The ball at his feet, one touch passing. Tackle, stealing the ball off Raheem, before feeding it to a lad named Philippe, his movements dazzling as a magic trick, his touch as thrilling. The players tough, and tackling bit more of a thing here than back in Spain. Javier ran, shifted,breathed. His body doing the drills he’d been taught, his mind seeing the spaces, noting distance, proximity of players position to the goal. The pitch underfoot even, the grass smooth, the movement of the ball sure, without the bumps or an uneven field making the passes unpredictable. Raheem- the player he had to mark, fast and strong- using the edge of his shoulder, the lean of his body to try and hustle Javier off the ball.

Nah - ah- Raheem was as slight as a pixie and - _joder_ , just as fast. Javier took a breath through lungs that felt too tight, and kicked out, only to for his speed to falter for a crucial second. Raheem, crack player he was, nicked the ball off Javier, feinted left, fainted right - flicked the ball off his instep- and boom in the net. 

“Gooooollllllaaaaazzzzzoooooo!” Jose- that was Jose if he remembered the introductions properly- screamed, before blowing his whistle in three short, sharp bursts. 

The whistle couldn’t come soon enough, as Javier leaned over, his hands resting on his trembling, his body trembling with the aftershocks of exertion, his lungs starved of air as he panted rapidly. 

“Good game,” he heard Raheem say over the pounding of blood in his ears. 

Unable to speak, Javier lifted a hand from his knee and shook Raheem’s hand. Another murmur of encouragement, a light punch on the shoulder, and Raheem was gone. 

“Well done,” and this was Danny. Now that his pulse and breathing were approaching normal rates of respiration, Javier could now hold a conversation. But he had to straighten up first. Yes. 

“Sorry about that goal, but -”

“Raheem is a fast one,” Danny shook his head. “I should have warned you, he used to do track...Hey, thanks for filling in. If you’re up for it, we’d love you back next week. You shouldn’t let Alberto keep your light under a bushel- and speak of the devil, here he is. Alberto!” Danny nicked a bottle of sports drink from Alberto’s hands. “You shouldn’t have! See you next week?”

“I-” 

“Yeah,” Alberto grinned, before handing the other bottle to Javier. Javier too dehydrated to argue, or be polite, as he forced himself to sip at the sports drink. And oh, he realised Alberto was wearing short sleeves, one of his arms covered entirely in tattoos. 

Danny fistbumped Alberto with one hand, while sipping at his sports drink, and he was gone, taking his bluster and verve that filled up the field, leaving nothing but both of them behind. 

“You played a good game,” Alberto said, “considering we just dragged you into it, and you didn’t warm up. You might want to cool down and do stretches before you come off the field.”

“I will. Thanks for this,” Javier made a vague gesture that encapsulated the field. “And the drink,” he held up his bottle. 

“You played well out there,” Alberto grinned, tongue between his teeth, the faint eyes stamped at the corner of his eyes. 

“So did you,” Javier couldn’t help but return the grin, before easing into his natural reserve once more. He wanted to say, _You played as if you were cantera trained, you seem familiar_. A bit more skilled than just some kid who larked around on the ball, and Javier took a breath and a step back from the ledge. “I have to go back to my dorm, Alberto from _Sevilla_. I have assignments.”

“Javier from Atlético Madrid. Now that I know your name, I won’t be calling you Atlético Madrid in my head, like I’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks.”

“You’ve been calling me _Atlético Madrid?_ ” Javier laughed, especially at Alberto’s mocking way of saying Madrid ending with the _z_ \- _Madridz_. 

“You called me Sevilla?”

“Black socks, actually,” Javier teased, enjoying the banter between them, his reserve thawing under Alberto’s sunny grin, his eyes brown and merry, folding his arms across his chest as if Alberto wanted nothing else to do but spend all Sunday talking to him. 

“Black socks!” Alberto shouted on a laugh, “that’s -”

“Alberto!” Jose shouted from across the field. “Are you ready to go?”

“I- one minute,” Alberto turned to face Jose before facing Javier once more, his hair as spiky as a cock’s comb in fleeting profile. “I- can I have your number? Just in case we’re short of a person and -”

“Yeah, sure,” Javier rubbed at the nape of his neck, wincing at the sore muscles in his shoulder. “Just in case you’re short of a person.”

oOo

Alberto looked at his phone screen, his eyes fixed on the name, and the English phone number that started with _07_.

Jose had company in the next room, his loud manic laughter and shouts of ‘Aaaata leeegoooo’ meant that he was winning at FIFA 2014 - or table tennis. Or life, really. Nothing got Enrique down, even though life had tried for a time or two. 

“Ah, you’re in here?” Danny ambled in, hands full with a tray covered with foil. It smelt like - fried fish with spices, fried deep in oil, the pepper tickled his nose, the smell delicious. Minding his manners, Alberto placed his phone on the kitchen counter, and took the items off Danny’s hands, placing the tray on the table in middle of the kitchen. 

“Me mum fried some fish, you’re welcome.” Danny said, as he opened the fridge and helped himself to beer, his voice floating over his shoulder. “Why are you in here then, playing at Billy no mates? Jose exacted his revenge on you once too often?”

“Sitting under a table when you lose to Jose gets to you after a while. He just...keeps _winning_.” Alberto wrinkled his nose in mild annoyance. 

Danny laughed, dapper in a simple jumper, dark trousers and brogues. The cream of the jumper showing off his smooth, even dark skin to the best effect. “He’s a bastard, that one, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“You should call your mate. What’s his face- Javier? He’s good enough for five a side, but not to invite over to dinner and get beaten by Jose? Share the wealth - or the pain, I say.”

Alberto picked up his phone, put it back on the counter. “He’s a student, and students are busy.”

“Looking for someone to pick up their drink tab, more like,” Danny nodded sagely, his handsome features marred by his frown. Working in student bars had made him cynical over the years. “You’re right, don’t be the one who pays for drinks. Javier looks nice enough, but-”

“No, I-” 

“¡ _Oyeeee_! Danny- I’m ready for you!”

Danny rolled his eyes, and set his jaw. “He’s going down, mate. I’m gonna win this thing. FIFA here I come. You’re coming with?”

“No, not yet, tell Jose that I’m still... scared. He’ll get me in the week.”

Danny did a half salute before backing out of the kitchen, not before he nicked two beers from the fridge. 

The last time Alberto felt like this - out of sorts - was the first year with _everything_. Unable to chose, wondering if the choices were the wrong ones - but then not choosing had been its own hell, and all the choices had gone wrong in the end. 

_Make a decision_ , he scolded himself, and after a moment’s thought, he did. 

After the two short rings on the line, then pause, a voice came through. “Hello?”

“Javier,” Alberto greeted, staring at the street lights outside through his kitchen window.

“Alberto from _Sevilla_ ,” Javier’s voice came over the line, as polite as anything. “Did you see your team in the last match against Levante? They did well.”

“We need all the points we can get,” Alberto leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his feet at the ankles. “We can’t be high flyers like Atléti but we’ll get there.”

“It’s nice to play spoiler in the league, _El Cholo_ is a great coach. A bit intense, but that’s what wins matches no?”

“Yeah, I-” Alberto rubbed at his stubble, feeling the flush warming his cheeks. “I’ve been ordered to invite you for dinner, and get beaten by Jose.” 

“Invited to get a beating? Well...At least you’ve offered me dinner first?”

“No, I. I mean- Jose demands table tennis contests, and video games. He can be a pest, really, but he cooks really well and -who knows? You might be the spoiler in _our_ league.”

Javier’s laughter rippled over the connection, and if Alberto got goosebumps along his arms- well, it was the English chill, that’s all. “I can’t this week. I have study groups and an assignment to hand in. But yes, dinner and a beating, who can resist?”

***

“Football?” Javier asked, turning his head to stare at Alberto, only to see his profile as they looked out at the water in the distance. His hair cut in lines and shapes, his beard ginger in the weakening light of the day. “You have a football team?”

“No,” Alberto shook his head, as he threaded his arm through Javier’s because Javier was a bit too tall for Alberto to throw his arm around his shoulders. Alberto was like that, easy with touches, and smiles, dimples creasing his cheeks in amusement, his other hand gesticulating, creating images as he talked. “Nooo. Well. Maybe?” he frowned, “I’m just a bit part of it- the Hedgehogs. We’re Northern League, and not _so_ rubbish,” he said, his accent a strange hybrid of the Liverpool rolled vowels and the distinct glottal stop of Sevilla. “We’re thinking about making a go of the FA cup and we want to know, if you’d join us.”

“I-” Javier tried to be polite, even though he felt otherwise. “I might not be what you want.” 

“You’ve played with us for a couple of Sundays, and you’re good- enough for our level, and we-”

“No,” Javier grabbed at Alberto’s hand, his fingers circling Alberto’s wrist, as he pushed it away. “I’m really not the one you want.”

“ _Javi-_ ” Alberto tried to interject- but Javier shook his head, knowing that he was irrational, thank you very much, but he needed. He needed ... “Thanks for everything, but I have to go,” he babbled, blindly looking around for an out, but when you walked along the pier, past the history museum, there was no other way for it but to get back into town, and leave as quickly as he could. 

“Javi-!”

“I’m sorry,” Javier said, his voice reedy because his heart was beating too fast. “I have to go- bye Alberto.”

***

Tuesday evening, and instead of the library, Javier stumbled into his room, ignoring the rest of his flatmates, as he put his bag down, and sat on the bed, feeling the mattress dipping under his weight.

“Hey,” that was Ander, his head sticking between the door and the wall, his eyes and smile wide. “We’re going into town to have a munch at Nandos.”

“Nandos?”

“Not exactly Spanish food,” Ander agreed, “but we will live. Then Thumper-”

“Oh no,” Javier laughed, thinking of the throng of Spanish students trying to hit on the local _talent_ in that part of the city, and both sets of parties not understanding each other because of language. The English not understanding the Spaniards, and the Spaniards not understanding the - Scouse, was it? “Thumper.”

“You haven’t been yourself this past week,” Ander slipped inside the room, leaned against the wall, already dressed for going out in a button down and black jeans. “You okay, Javi? Like, if I leave you now, will I come back and find you in one piece?”

“I’m fine,” Javier rubbed the nape of his neck. “Short of having a psycho in my closet, I’ll be in one piece when you come back.”

“Well,” Ander said, obviously half torn between taking him at his word, and wanting to stay, but Javier waved his hand as dismissal. “Go, I’ll be fine. I have my homework to keep me-” he inhaled through his teeth. “Occupied.”

“If you say so,” Ander pushed himself off the wall and edged to the door. 

“I say so.”

Ander left, taking his good humour with him. Javier sat on the bed, the phone in his hand, as he skimmed his thumb across the screen, and before he decided on anything, the phone rang. Javier looked at the name across the screen, and before he changed his mind, clicked on the green icon. 

“I’m sorry,” Alberto’s voice came over the phone speaker, tinny as anything. “I know I can come on too strong. The other day I thought, 'self, Javier might have a thing against hedgehogs. Even though they’re really cute'.”

Javier laughed, as he rubbed the heel of his hand against his ribcage. “I’ve never seen a hedgehog before.”

“Me neither, I -”

“You called asking me about hedgehogs?” Javier squeezed the phone so hard, the tips of his fingers turned white, and the short knock of his heart against his chest so sharp, he briefly closed his eyes. 

“No,” Alberto’s voice hushed over the line, the screams of “ATTA LEGOOOOO!” in the background, with loud groans from other people. “I- I just. You’re my friend, Javi. I miss you. Even though your choice of team is- ill advised.”

Javier rubbed at his nose against the sudden prickle. “We’ll win the La Liga this year.”

“Simeone isn’t _that_ good,” Alberto snorted, “half of Atlético Madrid’s team have been tapped up by Chelsea, and -”

“I can’t hear you over the sound of us being in Champions League while you’re scuffling around in Europa.”

Alberto’s choked noise of indignation did it, sending Javier into his first real laugh since last week when he left Alberto behind on the pier. 

“I’m not good,” he admitted, “I don’t know if I’ll be good enough for your Hedgehogs.”

“We’re Northern conference,” Alberto chirped, “and wear a hedgehog on our crest. You can’t be _that_ bad.”

***

Jordon Ibe, another of their merry band of --- “Array,” he explained to Javier. “We’re Array FC, and our crest is a hedgehog. Like an array of hedgehogs, yeah?”

“Ah,” Javier nodded. “A collective noun for animals you mean, like a... herd of cows.”

“Yeah,” Jordon smiled, his snaggle tooth prominent, his eyes dark and cheery. “There used to be loads of hedgehogs in this part of the world back in the day-” his south London accent with the american slang threw Javier off. “So it stuck.”

“So what do you do,” Javier placed his arms behind his back, his fingers threading together as he stretched the knots out. “When you aren’t... arraying?”

“Computer science student, Liverpool uni, first year.” Jordon linked his fingers around his knee, pulled it towards his chest, while standing on the other leg. “You?”

“Here on exchange,” Javier said, “English and business.”

“Ah, English, eh? How do you find ‘Pool?”

“Cold.”

“That sounds about right,” Jordon grinned. “It’s a lot warmer in London, but what can you do, eh?” Javier turned his head this way and that, taking in their surroundings. Array FC had its base in a village called Wickerstaff, the ground surrounded by terraced houses. The sign that greeted him was worn, but neat, in the club’s colours: black and white, with a black and white rendering of a hedgehog on a patch of red. 

Their coach was an eccentric one. An... Argentine- German. Someone who willingly left London for one, and relocated to Liverpool for two, and three, believed in the cause, in his _unphilosophy_ enough to risk big for it. 

“A half touch,” he’d croon, as he watched them do the ronda with his hand waving as if conducting an orchestra of moves. “ _Un min tocque_ \- just because others in this league play with brute force, doesn’t mean that we _must_.”

And- “Agnostic, we’re here because we believe in everything and nothing,” he’d harrumph, when Jose cheekily asked Herr Fischer what he was doing here. “More, yes? More.”

“Hey, since you’re into English, can you do our blog?” Jordon asked, “no big, just a couple of paragraphs here and there for our games. You can charge the invoice to the club, it’s not much money, but every little helps, right?”

“Yeah,” Javier agreed, because Jordon was so easy going, someone you couldn’t say no to. His smile and manner made him fun to be around. “Sure.”

The exercises challenging, the strategy simple, and every time his eyes met Alberto’s, Alberto smiled, and Javier found it easier to return his smiles every time.

*** 

“So,” Jose said after Alberto got soundly thrashed by him on FIFA again. Not that he didn’t trust Jose, Alberto thought as he eyed his console control, and turned it over in his hand. But... he didn’t trust Jose

“What’s this thing going on between you and Javier, then?”

“What thing?” Alberto pulled a face as he shook his console control. He’d just come in from work, his coat and work bag thrown on the arm of the sofa, his work clothes still on, his eyes on the screen. 

Jose scratched at his jaw with his thumb as they both stared at the screen, waiting in companionable silence as the game loaded, and Alberto again chose his team.

“It’s nice, seeing you like that again. After everything, I mean.”

“I -” Alberto said, before picking out his players moving his thumbs over the controls. “It’s not like that. He’s only here for a year, and we needed an RB right?”

“He’s good,” Jose said, his eyes on the screen. “Knows how to position, knows how to read the game, plods a bit though. Cantera lad, you think?”

“I don’t know,” Alberto admitted, his feet absently tapping to the music coming from the screen. “I can’t ask anyone about football, not with my history, no?”

“You’re too hard on yourself, _Albertito_.”

***

_“ Tonight, we have our garden section. Hedgehogs vs the Toadstools - eighty nine minutes in- and so far, evenly matched, despite their respective leagues, don’t you think, Gary?”_

_“Andreas Fischer’s team is playing what he calls the Football of the Agnostic - oh, there’s Alberto Moreno, good to see him back on any field, after his problems, eh? Looking solid there, on the left.”_

_“Oh, there goes James Fletcher on the breakaway, ball at his feet, and oh will he-- no, doused by Manquillo, like sand on a campfire. Good one-- oh ho! This is shaping up to be a contest of wills, Tom. So this Andreas Fischer, then...”_

_“An Argentine-German. According to _The Times_ , last year he quit his City job in order to ply his trade as a coach. He’s the hybrid of an English nightmare dressed as a daydream, I’m sure. Look at him!”_

_”Aren’t they all?”_

_”Argentine _and_ German, in English football, what are the odds, eh? That being said, his game play is _interesting_. They’re holding their own, even though the Toadies are a league up. Northern League. I can’t say that I understand what he’s doing?”_

_“He likens it to being reactive football, and there goes Daniel Sturridge, bombing away from the red and white of the jerseys of the Toadstools, as he receives a great pass from Ibe- and oh, oh can he do it, oOOOOOHHHHHH! Back of the net! What a beauty by Jordon Ibe. College student at the University of Liverpool by day, terrorising defences by night. What a hit, son!”_

_“The whistle goes! And the Hedgehogs are through!”_

_“Early enough for a spot of tea, too. Ahhh, look at Moreno and Sturridge and their little dance. It was a decent game, I’m sure Fischer will be encouraged by this. He might hold off going back to London for now, anyway.”_

_“The Hedgehogs make a great start to their FA cup journey. Over to you, Chezza and Will, I see that you have Santiago Fischer right beside you...”_

***

Sunlight, no matter how dim, tended to stomp itself on unwilling eyelids. Javier threw up his arm, trying to block the sun, his other hand rubbing against his cheek, wincing at the morning stubble. He turned, head pressing against the pillow - that didn’t feel like his. The fabric softener didn’t smell like his own either, too lemony, not the strange floral one his housemates liked. Javier slitted his eyes open and oh, this was not his room, and he wasn’t in bed alone.

Alberto fast asleep beside him, his face half buried in his pillow, his frown almost smoothed out in sleep. For a guy so young, even with skin that fair, he already had deep lines embossed in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. Not that Javier could talk, running under the blistering sun ten months a year for over a decade growing up didn’t help his case. Alberto’s arm on the pillow beside him, his tattoos surrealistic and vibrant with their own sort of beauty. Javier tore his eyes away, tugged at his shirt he’d slept in. 

Rubbing at his face again, he remembered how he arrived here the night before.

_“Come on,” Alberto grabbed at Javier’s hand, tugging Javier towards him. “Live a little, we won, Javier!”_

_Javier looked at the sleek frontage of the building they stood in front of. There was already a queue, the air spiced with perfume and alcohol, trembling with music booming from the club. Daniel, Enrique and the rest were already in high spirits from the win the night before._

_“I-”_

_“You can crash at ours, come on, say yes.”_

_“All right. For one hour.”_

_“Get in!” Alberto yelled, trying for the thick, rolled vowels of the Liverpool accent, but it just sounded as if he were choking on his tongue instead._

_The nightclub snug with bodies, warm even with the aircon going at full blast, and cooling mist floating from above. The songs ubiquitous- you heard them in the halls, on the radio, in the cars._

_Dancing with Alberto was easy, because Alberto didn’t care, mouthing the words to Gecko’s _Overdrive_ , and they danced in the crush of bodies. Javier found himself shoved against a girl, “Sam,” she breathed in his ear, and he tipped his head, half shouting in her ear, “Javi.” Sam said something, lost in the thump of music, only for Javier to lift his eyes for a minute, his stare locked with Alberto’s, the bump of music suddenly far away, his mouth suddenly slack as if he’d been caught off guard in mid conversation, the expression in his eyes uncertain._

_Only for Alberto throw his head back and punch the air, his hand pumping to the beat, and oh, thought Javier, it had been just a weird moment._

Javier shifted, only for Alberto to open his eyes, greeting him with a sleepy smile. 

“Good morning,” Alberto rubbed at his eyes with both hands. 

“‘Morning.”

“How does it feel, champ?” Alberto greeted, voice slurred with sleep. “To be a winner?”

“It’s a team sport.” Javier said, not knowing how to feel. How to think. He'd loved it, as he knew he would, and it scared him.

“Javi-” Alberto touched his arm, his eyes wide and stricken, golden brown in the morning light. “It’s your win as well as ours.”

“I’m sorry,” Javier apologised, “I just-”

“Which cantera were you?”

“What?”

“You play well defensively. Really textbook. It’s quite something. You know how to put players off their ball, you play to position, your passes are accurate, and the gameplay is relatively disciplined- you’re decent.”

“Yeah, decent,” Javier couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. “Not like you, Alberto Moreno, broke into the Sevilla first team two years ago - before you came to England, and disappeared.”

In a blink, Alberto’s eyes moved from puppy dog stricken to hard shards of smoked topaz. 

“I’ll take you home,” Alberto said finally, as he pushed himself off the bed, and swung his feet to the side, his shirt off, his tattoos a coloured sleeve on one hand, and creeping down on the other, an artistic work of progress marked by grey and black lines along his arm.

***

Alberto, as good as his word, drove Javier across town to the University lodgings, but even on Sunday, they got caught in the snarl of traffic on the road that Javier had yet to know the name of. Alberto stared out the window, the local radio station playing some 80s tunes on a Sunday morning, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the beat on the radio. The traffic moved fitfully, although not at full speed.

“Atletico Madrid-” Javier answered finally, after spending an indeterminate time looking at Alberto’s profile. The upturned nose, the ginger whiskers, and how he seemed more Scouse than Spanish. “That was my cantera. My brother and I went there together, and stayed together as long as we could- and then at seventeen, I was let go.” 

“Tough,” Alberto commiserated. “You’d have been a professional by then.”

“My feet aren’t so great,” Javier shrugged. “Leaden, and - well, I got into university, so it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You didn’t do Segunda B?”

Javier leaned his head against the car seat’s headrest, staring through the windscreen. Liverpool had inclines and hills, something that the guidebooks of the city never really got into. It didn’t sprawl like Madrid tended to do, but it definitely had its own space, and interesting architecture. 

“For a bit. Somozas, Burgos... but you know, you know? Especially with Víctor who seemed to hit the marks, and had the progression. It was enough. So I stepped away, didn’t get called back.”

“That’s tough,” Alberto agreed, his voice matter of fact.

“Not so bad, I kept up with the studies and discovered that I was good at them, so it’s something, right?”

“Right.”

Javier turned to look at Alberto again, who peered at his review and index mirror. “It’s mad how Christmas is coming around again, no?”

“It’s crazy, just the other day, it was August, and the start of the FA cup, and now we’re in December and in the third stages.”

“It’s mad,” Javier agreed, “I- it’s strange how football is the same, and yet different, no? It’s like our Copa del Rey, but the English- when it comes to football- they love too much and think too little.”

“Their own... _mordo_ ,” Alberto agreed. “I remember when I played in the League over here-” and Javier leaned forward, wanting to hear what Alberto had to say. He read _stories_ , but Marca was _impossible_ when it came to news of other leagues. Anything beyond Real Madrid and Barcelona, in La Liga, they had no time for, and the English papers with news concerning lower placed PL sides - they tended to be too circumspect. 

“You’re right, that’s all,” Alberto smiled, and everything fell away. The music of the radio, nothing but his breath a reverb in Javier’s ears, because Alberto’s eyes were warm again, his face lit with his usual sunny nature, before the blare of the horns tore their moment apart. Alberto waved a hand to the drivers behind him, and placing the foot on the accelerator, drove off.

***

**Rustlings From The Hedge website entry December 2014**

“The football agnostic isn’t someone who disbelieves in football, or the principles of football. It is the exact opposite, it’s the belief that one can read and react to the vagaries of football and style as it is presented to you. It is the freedom to reject the notion of a strict _philosophy_ , such as the Bielsa school of high pressing, or the kaleidoscopic venture of Guardiola’s position of play. The Football Agnostic is one who sees the philosophies in front of him and works around them. He’s formless, a _an interloper_ on the field, but a scholar of no mean intelligence off it.” Santiago Fischer, coach

**comment** : You know, Fischer is a bellend - ahedgehoginanarray

**comment** U wot, m8? Santiago Fischer pretty much turned the Hedgehogs around, we’re still in the FA cup and it’s what- December? You are having a laff, mate. I believe in San Iago. If he’s a bellend, I worship at the religion of bellends. I too, am a bellend. With the winningest team in Conference 9 so far. - San Iago believer

With a wry smile, Javier looked at the messages, and decided to leave them on the facebook wall. 

“What’s so funny?” Daniel said, as he crashed into the couch beside him. 

“Messages on facebook,” Javier said, not looking up from his laptop, as he minimised the page and started to write another blog entry. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Daniel shook his head. “Oh my days, I love the supporters, I do, but they can do my head in, you know?”

Javier looked up from his laptop. They were at the club grounds, and the money from TV rights were already making things a bit better. Like the new sofa in the rec room where staff connected to the club crashed in between training days. 

“I know,” Javier raised an eyebrow, as he continued tapping at the keyboard. “But it’s supporters that make the club no? Then the footballers, then the manager, and everything else.”

“True,” Daniel said, “I mightn’t have been for the leagues, but there’s nowt like the ball at your feet, yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“So, then, Javier, are you coming to our little party? Or are you for Spain?”

“I’m here,” Javier said, finding and clicking on the image to upload, and then writing a blurb on their schedule. Jordon did a photoshop detail of their second half of the season’s schedule, and emailed it to him. All Javier had to do was upload it to their webpage, along with writing a few comments around the season. 

“You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” Daniel said in a considering tone. “When you’re not at training, you’re not around. Tell me, is it because of Jose? He gets on our tits with winning at FIFA and table tennis too, you know. If it’s because he made you sit under a table and take a picture...”

Javier shook his head, and waved Daniel’s concerns away. “It’s not about Jose,” and that was true, because it really wasn’t. It was about Alberto, and himself and whatever weird ... _thing_ they had. Or didn’t have. The touches they shared with every match they won, the group hugs with everyone, as Sturridge scored goals, with Coutinho and Jordon assisting. 

_“The Hedgehogs, another win!” The announcer would bark from the sidelines, the supporters close enough to be touched, to be heard. The lights in the terrace houses surrounding the field on, the windows opened, the supporters waving banners of oversized drawings of hedgehogs. Jordon scored, again, his grin rivaling the floodlights around the field, and it was easy to hug him in congratulations after a match. With Sturridge and Coutinho and the rest of the team piling on top of them, and when they broke away, Alberto’s fingers would brush his arm, setting off brushfires there. Their eyes would meet, and Javier would be caught in the grip of Alberto’s gaze, before Alberto smiled, the dimples creasing his cheeks, and he’d turn away to hug Daniel, in congratulations for another goal, and do that dance of wiggly arms that they’d do to the roar of the audience. And Javier wanted nothing but-_

“We’re going to be crashing by Alberto and Jose on the day. Bring food, or drink, if you can. If you can’t, just bring yourself!”

Javier blinked, realising where he was, his face suffused with heat, and he rubbed along his jaw. Daniel had already moved away, only to stop at the door of the tiny rec room, and doing finger guns aimed in Javier’s direction, only said, “Be there, or be square.”

***

Alberto eyed the paella on the grill in front of him. Daniel, Jordon and Jose rigged a pit in the backyard, early this morning, making it enough for it to accommodate the oversized paella pan. and Alberto was elected to cook. The walls high enough for the neighbours not to see, but the houses on the street were silhouettes in the darkness; with the odd square of light in the windows, for most of the neighbourhood went away for Christmas.

Alberto stood outside, as he tended to the dish, with short sleeves, because between the heat of the grill and the relative mildness of the air (the cold didn’t really start to bite until January), he was comfortable enough, as he eyed the contents in the pan before him, two bottles of spices in his pocket, a roll of aluminium foil in hand. 

Everything steaming in the pan, and eyeing the rice, he sprinkled a bit more saffron, before slipping the bottle into the pocket of his jeans. Satisfied with the glowing embers in the grill, he ripped at the broad sheets of foil, ready for it to steam, the flavours already scenting the air, fragrant and savory. He heard the door open, and called out, “Just leave the wine over here, Jose, it will keep me warm until I have to bring the pan ins-” he turned around, his heart smashing against his rib cage when he saw the familiar frame in the doorway, with the red and white stripes of his football club. “Javier!” and it wasn’t a hardship to smile, to stretch out his hand in greeting. “What brings you here?”

“ _Feliz Navidad_ or ‘Happy Christmas’ as they say here,” Javier returned his smile. “Daniel invited me, and Jose kept threatening to kidnap me from my dorm room.”

“Ah,” Alberto laughed, an almost wild loopy thing. “Jose is crazy as a goat, but we keep him as a pet.”

“They told me to bring something,” Javier started. “Víctor sent some ham, it’s in the kitchen, I-” he rolled his shoulders, and did that smile again, where he might be amused or detached, but Alberto decided on amused, because the corner of his mouth did that _thing_ and- yes. 

“If it’s _Jamón ibérico_ , I’ll cry real tears.” 

“Jose kissed me,” a pained expression crossed Javier’s face, as he wrinkled his nose and rubbed at the nape of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Oh,” Alberto teased, not knowing what got into him, but Javier made it easy to well, flirt. “Jose got a jump on me, that was my job.”

Javier raised his eyebrows, and before Alberto could get a bead on what _that_ meant, the door swung open, spreading its white light around the back yard. 

“The paella must be finished by now!” Jose exclaimed, “bring it in. I’m hungry.”

“But the saffro-”

“In! Now! I’m hungry!”

“When it’s done, Jose,” Alberto scolded, his gaze not leaving Javier’s face. “I actually cook for living, remember?”

“Fine. I’ll help myself to ham, then. _Jamón ibérico_ you know. I might leave some for you.”

“I’ll risk it.” 

With the theatrics of a telenovela actor, Jose threw back his head, huffed, before he closed the door with a pointed click. 

“Sorry,” Alberto said, “He’s impossible. I think that’s his astrological sign. Impossible.”

“I was going to say, before Jose- that it’s not too late, you know,” Javier worried his lower lip with his teeth, his eyes fixed on Alberto. “If you still wanted to do your job, I mean.”

Silence. The air quiet enough for Alberto to hear the paella steaming away under the foil, the tinkle of Christmas carols faintly floating on the wind, and somewhere, someone sang. Then everything receded as he scanned his eyes on Javier’s face. 

His fingers numb, he heard the roll of foil fall onto the gravel underfoot instead of feeling it. Two, three steps and his fingers tangled in the lapels of Javier’s light windproof. Half tugging, half shifting his weight to his toes, his face a breath from Javier’s as he wanted to be sure. Wanted to know if _this_ \- whatever this was - if it was real. The stare across the dance floor in the club that time, the group hugs that they made sure they avoided each other on the field if they could manage it. 

Javier leaned in, his lips dragging against Alberto’s and on a broken moan, Alberto sucked on his lower lip, licking into Javier’s mouth, tasting spearmint and him. Feeling the slight tremor in Javier’s fingers as he grabbed for Alberto, and Alberto half pushed, half pressed Javier against the garden wall. 

It was easy, too easy to drown in sensation when it came to Javier. His scent thick and welcome in Alberto’s nose, his stubble scraping across Alberto’s jaw, and - they kissed until they had to break away to breathe in something other than each other. 

Only for the door to open, and it was Daniel this time. “Jose is ready, and I need to tell you, so am I. So let’s do this, eh?”

His eyes still on Javier’s Alberto took a step back, and picked up his foil roll. “Yes, okay.”

***

Javier didn’t go home that night. Not to his dorm, anyway.

They stumbled up the stairs into Alberto’s part of the house, and as soon as the door clicked shut, they tumbled over each other, Alberto slipping his hands under Javier’s shirt. 

“Ahhh,” Javier half yelped, “your hands are cold.”

Alberto shifted on to his tiptoes, nipping Javier’s lower lip, “C’mon, _Atléti_ ” half cajoling, half pleading, until Javier obliged him and shucked off his jacket and shirt. His half nude body half cast in shadows, half limed by the distant streetlights outside. Javier taller and leaner than Alberto himself, no tattoo or other marks on his arms and chest. 

“ _Atléti ?_ ” the sly laughter of Javier thrilled him, and Alberto opened his mouth to say something, only for his breath to stop in his throat as Javier slid his hands in Alberto’s boxers. Before his knees gave way, they fumbled and rolled onto his bed, arms and elbows everywhere. 

“I-” Alberto started, only for Javier to drag his thumb across his lips, before placing his lips where his thumb had been. 

“ _Javi-_ ,” Alberto panted, as they shed their clothing, feeling the drag of their skins against each other, the thrill and spark of new flesh, his eyes drifting shut at the skim of the tips of teeth along the thin skin of his collar bone, and _yes, yes yes_.

***

“I left football because- it became too hard.”

“I don’t believe you, _Albeno_.”

“ _Hostia_ ,” Alberto’s laughter rumbled through his chest, under Javier’s ear. The day after Christmas, what the English called Boxing Day, and they were curled up under the sheets of Alberto’s bed, as snug and contented as tired puppies after play. “The English and their nicknames. It’s a menace. Their version of abbreviating my first name and surname.”

Javier shifted, inching his body until their heads touched. Alberto’s face sleepy and warm from a lie in, the scent of his covers still the citrus of the detergent that he’d smelt before. 

“What happened?” Javier asked, “You’ve heard my tale of woe, I just wasn’t good enough. The sort of good enough that not even sustained effort would make me better. The... what _Herr Fischer_ would call, _the tyranny of talent_. I hit a ceiling.”

“So did I,” Alberto answered, tugging at Javier’s fingers and Javier allowed it, Alberto threading his fingers in between Javier’s, his hands warm and dry. “I did Sevilla, broke through the first team, but I don’t know. Something was off, something was always there... off. I should have been happy, I had a girlfriend, someone whom I loved very much- and the feeling was mutual. I had family behind me.”

“It’s important,” Javier agreed, as Alberto squeezed his fingers before letting them go, and oh, this restlessness was new, in terms of this side of Alberto was new. Warm and open to fault, save for this one thing. “To have family.”

“When family is good, yes, as mine were. But...I felt off. I don’t know how to describe it. I thought a change of scenery would do me good, so I came to England. I asked Lillia to follow, and she did, because she loved me very much, and she was lovely. And then- I guess you’ve read the archives, yes?”

“The _English_ archives.”

“Ouch,” Alberto sucked in a breath . “I was a little throw away line in _AS_. My brother cut out the sliver of the news- _ALBERTO MORENO’S HORROR TACKLE_ and slipped it in a book somewhere. I was out with injury for a year. My knee-- and ankle. And on top of that, the feelings persisted- I felt off, I felt listless, like---” 

Javier didn’t say a word, because he didn’t know what to say, especially since Alberto wasn’t _here_ , not with him, not right now. Alberto looked at him now, his eyes glassy, a bit bloodshot. “Every year is a world, Javier. That year, it was a terrible world. I couldn’t - I wasn’t a good person, I didn't make good choices, I-I know. So Lillia left, as she should have done, because everything imploded that year. My injuries, my surgeries... terrible.”

“The newspapers said that--- your surgery didn’t go as planned?” Javier asked tentatively. 

“My ankle,” Alberto confirmed, before slipping into silence. Javier didn’t know how to prompt him, so he traced his finger along the lines of Alberto’s tattoos, his shoulders bare and peeking above the covers. This arm had bridges, done in grey scale, the drawings shifting over skin and muscle whenever Alberto moved. Alberto shorter and stockier in build than Javier was in truth. In the quiet, because the rest of the house wasn’t awake, he ran his fingers down Alberto’s forearm. 

“And on top of that, I was battling depression.”

“I- the newspapers didn’t say that.”

“No,” Alberto shifted, raising his arms and folding them behind his head, and Javier half realised that Alberto was pretty much devoid of body hair, save his face and the top of his head. “I couldn’t let that get out, can you imagine? My agent advised against me telling anyone. But I had to go through it, and by the time I came up from the fog, my chance was gone.”

Football, Javier knew, could be like that. You had a chance to impress the manager, to get time on the field. Once the window closed, that was that. You could risk it and go to a different team, but injuries and depression and Alberto being out for eighteen months with a change of coach... 

“Like you, I hit a ceiling. It was just all too much, so to use an English term, _I chucked it in_. So I stayed here, decided to work at the University, and here I am.”

“You miss it?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” Javier pushed himself up, and drew his knees closer to his body. “ _Everyday_. The highs, the lows. I had Atlético Madrid posters on the wall, I was going to be the next Juanfran, and I’d be playing under Diego Simeone... I’d be _Roja_ \- but it didn’t happen for me.”

“That _tyranny of talent_ thing.”

“Yeah,” Javier rubbed at his nose, “for a long time after, I stopped playing, because it hurt. But I got over it, because of my brother- he’s good enough to try, at least. To make it work and see where it goes. I think being a hedgehog, in Northern League, is it, for me, really.”

“For me too.”

Javier turned to Alberto, and again, not knowing what to say, because Alberto had climbed higher than he did; only to stumble and fall, the drop sharper, the landing harder. Alberto’s lashes suspiciously wet, and wordlessly, Javier lowered himself to their shared bed, and drew Alberto close. He closed his eyes when Alberto tucked his face into the hinge of his shoulder, stroked his back as Alberto’s breaths came out in ragged, body shaking sobs, his fists weakly pushing against Javier’s chest. The comfort undoing him, making him sob even harder, and Javier said nothing at all, only held on to him tighter.

***

  
**Rustlings From The Hedge**  


The Hedgehogs pricked the bubble of Bath City F.C. and we’re kicking on to the next round! Exciting times. Our coach, Santiago Fischer, had an interview with The Guardian [hyperlink here] last week, where he explains his antiphilosophy to James Woolley. Please go read. Our left back, Alberto Moreno, had a small interview with Liverpool echo [hyperline here] where he discusses our chances in the FA Cup.

**comment :** I still think our coach is a bell end, but he’s winning games, so I guess I’m now converted to the cult of bellends 

Is this what winning feels like? I can’t stop smiling. 

***

“We won’t win forever, you know.”

“I know.”

“All systems fail sometime.”  
“I know,” Alberto said, as he caught the ball under foot. A Sunday morning in February and they were bitterly cold, warming outside at the park near Alberto’s flat. Javier jogged over, his breath coming out in little clouds in the frigid air. 

“I know how losing feels,” Javier said, “following Atletico Madrid in 2007 and before Simeone came, we were well acquainted with losing. With Fischer - and this- I can understand why people only cheer for Real Madrid and Barcelona.”

“A sure win.”

“Yes.” 

Alberto tweaked the end of Javier’s nose, with a flick of his fingers. “It’s exciting to be a part of a new philosophy even though it’s _anti_. There’s something in discovery, and when we lose, we lose. Football is _expression_ more than winning.”

Javier smiled then, before he leaned in, and Alberto drew him close, his gloved hands in the lapels of Javier’s coat. “Then the adventure ends, there’s always next year. Every year is a world, Javi.”

The expression in Javier’s eyes changed, and before Alberto could offer an apology for breeching the unsaid rule, Javier kissed him, and nothing else mattered.

***

  
**FA Cup Report: Chelsea FC 2- 0 Array FC March 01, 2015**   
  
What do you get when the little team that could meets up with the Premier League that did? The Agnostic of football met the Machiavelli of football on the pitch, as the blues drowned all lines of attack from The Hedgehogs. Ibe and Sturridge got neutralised by the likes of Terry and Ivanovich. Special mention goes to Phillipe Countinho, a little elf of a man who dazzled everyone alike with the magic of his feet, and his ability to squeeze through tight spaces and stretch and fold time on the ball. Don’t cry for Array FC! With their romp through the FA, they now have the means to repair their toilets, and improve the offerings in their kit room as well as the surrounding stands. Santiago Fischer was well... _philosophical_ about their loss. “It’s a chance to retool,” he said, “Because footballing philosophies always evolve, so does the anti philosophy of it all. I would like to thank my team for buying into the idea, for daring to be interlopers on the field, and scholars off it.”

 **Rustlings From The Edge**  
Big announcement. Call this a simultaneous equation: we have to thank, say goodbye and BIG congratulations to our now former coach, Santiago Fischer, who’s been tapped to lead League 1 team Sheffield United FC come 2015/2016. Warm thanks to Santiago Fischer for giving his time and efforts, and we wish him all the best.

**Santiago Fischer-- he’s still a bellend. But he was our bellend. I’ll miss you, you cheeky knob- ahedgehoginanarray**

***

_Liverpool: the day after now_

John Lennon airport was like any other airports. Throngs of people hurrying this way and that, their wheeled suitcases running and skipping behind them, their passports of various colours to hand. 

Javier scanned the crowds, hoping to see a familiar face, and when he didn’t, kept his own face neutral, but Daniel, smarter than what anyone gave him credit for, knew. “You know what it’s like,” he said, after pulling back from a hug. “I’m sure if Alberto could have come, he would have.”

Unable to speak for a moment, Javier nodded, “You must come and visit. I’ll show you around Madrid.”

“I’ll get my Rosetta stone, and try learn some Spanish, I think.”

“See that you do.”

Jose drew him in for a hug, and nothing needed to be said. “I’ll miss you,” Jose mock wailed. “I’ll miss you sitting under the table when you lost against me. And the money I won off you from poker...”

“I see where this is going.”

“That’s your plane number,” Jordon piped up after the announcement over the tannoy. “It was great knowing you, Javier.”

“ _Igual_ \- I mean, likewise. Good luck.”

The announcement came again, and with one last look, Javier scanned the crowd, willing Alberto to appear out of nowhere. Just to see him, touch him one more time. 

On the plane ride back to Spain, Javier held himself together by distraction via movies on his laptop and the fussy baby with her apologetic mother in the seat beside him. _It was okay, he’d be okay._

Javier almost believed it until he stepped outside the airplane and into the airport. When he saw Víctor waving a sign (ASSHOLE), he laughed, not realising his cheeks were wet until Víctor reached into his pocket and handed him a handkerchief.

***

Madrid welcomed him back into her embrace, even though he’d been away for a year. Javier moved back into his parents’ house, into his old bedroom - now totally his- what with Víctor living away in whatever digs his team put him in.

“I was following your progress with... The Hedgehogs?” Víctor had said one evening when he had a couple days leave to visit. “You looked good in the games I saw.”

“Yes, The Hedgehogs,” Javier poked at his omelette. “I still have the jersey.”

“That Alberto Moreno guy- he still has it. I mean, yeah, a bit slower, but he’s _effective_. He doesn’t bomb forward as he used to, but defending shutting down forwards, he's pretty solid. What was playing with him like?”

“He’s good.”

“Shame about the injuries, eh?”

“Yes,” Javier said, not wanting to get into it. Víctor had his suspicions, he knew, but didn’t give Víctor anything, just let it twist in the wind. 

“How’s your English?” 

“Improved,” Javier said, “I even did a blog for the team over the season. So it’s solid all around, I think.”

“Well,” Víctor smiled, his eyes warm with emotion. “I’m glad that you’re back.”

And oh, despite everything, Javier swallowed past the lump in his throat and smiled. “I’m glad too.”

***

Two weeks, and everything had started to settle. Javier now back at school, a part time job, and a routine. When he closed his eyes, he didn’t see Alberto's face behind his eyelids anymore. He could now watch Sevilla play without flinching.

Javier buzzed himself into his parents’ house, walked up the stairs - only to see Alberto seated at the table, laughing and chatting with his mother. 

Alberto, who looked the same, with the asymmetrical haircut, and his tattoos now filled out, one in colour, one in grey scale. When he laughed at something Javier’s mother said, his dimples winking into existence, Javier rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest, absently wondering when his heart would ever stop feeling like that when he saw Alberto- the ache of seeing him again, of feeling lit from within when he smiled. 

“Javier should be here soon, he’s-” his mother got up, taking away what must have been Alberto’s finished cup of coffee, and she saw him. “Javi,” she greeted, enfolding him in her arms, the light scent of neroli clinging to her skin. “Your friend is here, Alberto Moreno? I remember his name, you both played for that team in _Inglaterra_ , The Hogs?”

“Hedgehogs, _madre_ ,” Javier kissed her cheek, “it’s... different.”

“I told him that he could stay for dinner- unless you want to eat out?”

“And I keep telling her that I’m fine, thank you.” Alberto smiled, before he grew sober. “Javi-”

“We’ll be fine, I assure you. Is it okay if we go to my room?”

“If it’s tidy?”

“He’ll live.”

A heavy tsk from his mother, and Javier kissed her cheek, before leaving the room, and it took all his control not to drag Alberto away, as he exchanged more pleasantries with Javier’s mother, before Alberto followed him.

***

The door clicked shut, and immediately, Alberto got crowded against it, his hands in Javier’s hair, Javier’s lips on his. After two weeks away, the effect immediate, like spark on dried kindling. It was as if they’d never separated, as if they’d never stopped being. The need, the thirst still there, as essential as breathing.

“Alberto-” and his name never sounded more imperative, like an invocation, with Javier mouthing it against his lips. It was a wrench, a boulder on his chest as he pushed Javier away with shaking hands, and Alberto didn’t know what he was going to say until he said it, his mouth trembling, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You _left_ me.” 

Javier pressed their foreheads together. “I had to come back, finish my degree, get -” and his voice broke. “I looked for you at the airport- and -” Javier gulped back _everything_ , his eyes scanning Alberto’s face. “I thought I gave you the wrong time, but everyone else was there- save Phillipe, but he sent me a text and posted a gift. I didn’t see you.”

“I’m sorry,” Alberto whispered, feeling the elastic of Javier's skin under his thumb as he swiped at his cheek. “There’s nothing I could say to make you stay. I forgot - that you had to leave. I look at you, and I forget everything. If I’d come to the airport, I’d have begged you to stay, and it wouldn’t be fair, not after you made your position clear. Javi- I have hurt you, by being here, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“No,” Javier stepped away, slipping his shaking hands into his pockets. “It- it’s - it’s never pain to see you, Alberto.”

“You’re kind,” Alberto still leaned against the door, his eyes only for Javier. “I’m glad, I want to see you - everyday, I -” he cleared his throat, “I don’t know- is it too late, Javi?”

“Too late?”

“To see where this could lead, what we could be. I... it might be time to come back to Spain, and probably reconnect with family, to see what Spain might be like with you in it.”

The smile that Javier gave- and for the first time, Alberto didn’t have to guess if it were from amusement or polite interest. “No,” Javier shook his head, and laughed this time, and Alberto felt the ice in his chest crack, and loosen. For the first time in two weeks, he could _breathe_ , and he did when Javier finished his sentence. “It’s never too late for you.”

FIN


End file.
